Efficiency runs on Burnout The biggest misconception isn’t the pursuit of paradise; it’s the belief that constant convenience and perfect order come without pain. When you push through exhaustion in silence, When you distance yourself emotionally, When the lonely effort of performing is celebrated, Beware of the trap of striving for efficiency every single day. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art . Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub: https://www.facebook.com/share/g/18ythpSXPZ/ You can subscribe to my music via YouTube Music , Spotify , iTunes, Apple Music and Soundcloud To support my art, feel free to donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal If you want to acquire JJFB's art creations as an NFT - John's Opensea NFT pr...
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The Waiting Lounge Flowers
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The Waiting Lounge Flowers
The Waiting Lounge Flowers Poem
The waiting lounge is a place of human transition, where strangers weave a tapestry of silent experiences. People occupy seats, orchestrating a symphony of hushed conversations and restless energy. The air is full of anticipation, and a semblance of camaraderie ignites the room. While some are lost in digital worlds, others watch planes on the tarmac. Amidst the restless hum, some seek solace in nervous taps upon their thighs. A young couple shares whispers of love and delicate secrets. An elderly man turns time-worn pages, escaping into another world. The collective yearning within is veiled by the dance of coffee and perfume. Spontaneous children's laughter bounces between rows of chairs, filling the space with memory echoes of want. A businessman's urgency is etched upon his face as his fingers dance within his keys. Fleeting connections, forgotten glances, and stories that interlace and entwine. Blossoming possibilities sprout within these transient walls like delicate flowers. Departure looms, and the lounge pulses with energy, a portrait of imminent dispersal. Strangers bound by purpose, threads of destiny intertwine. Conversations are canvases and whispered brushstrokes paint the air. Eyes are portals to distant skies, yearning for wings that will soon take flight. Nervous rhythms and whispered rhymes form a symphony of unspoken desires. Fragments of stories are whispered between sips of bitter coffee and sweet perfumes. Nervous laughter cascades like an inconvenient rain, trying to wash away the burdens of waiting. In this transient space, transitions unfurl, and the lounge becomes a confined meeting place of souls.
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
The Toxic Weight of Waiting The atmosphere has thickened. What was once a room defined by walls and chairs has dissolved into a toxic haze, an environmental manifestation of a mind under siege. She no longer sits; she kneels, anchored to the floor by an invisible gravity. Above her, the "toxic air" takes shape as a looming, jagged shadow infused with high-velocity greens and burning volcanic reds. It feels less like smoke and more like a predator, a towering silhouette of anxiety that has finally outgrown the space. The colours vibrate with a sickly, chemical heat, turning the very oxygen into something thick and sharp. In this room, the silence has become deafeningly loud. The fractured light from the previous moment has bled together, creating a suffocating shroud that blurs the line between the physical world and an internal fever dream. The momentum hasn't just stalled; it has been swallowed. She has diminished, huddled in the eye of this psychic storm, a solitary ...
The Ethereal Ascent The air in the room is violently still, creating a heavy pressure. She has long stopped looking at the clock, realising that time here is not a sequence but a weight. The waiting room has fractured; the mundane reality of plastic chairs and linoleum flooring splinters into a jagged, stained-glass fever dream. High-pitched frequencies of burning red and sickly blues vibrate as if hardened walls, echoing the frantic noise of a mind that has run out of distractions. Every sharp edge of colour feels like a spiritual siege, a sensory reminder that her momentum has been forcibly halted. There is no use in pacing. There is no use in resisting the authoritative hand of the "in-between." To survive this stall, she must stop fighting the current and become part of the stagnant water. She looks out, as if just awakened, and does the only thing left to recollect. She breathes. She waits. She waits for the shards to align once more. Be Creative and Innovative wit...
Waiting for Azrael The air in the room doesn't move; it simply presses She has long since stopped looking at the clock, realising that time here isn't a sequence, but a weight. The waiting room has fractured, the mundane reality of plastic chairs and linoleum tiling splintering into a jagged, stained-glass fever dream . High-pitched frequencies of burning red and sickly yellow vibrate against the walls, echoing the frantic noise of a mind that has run out of distractions. She pulls her legs inward and forms a tight knot, dressed in indigo and bruised purple. She tries to find a purpose in her world that refuses to stand still. Every sharp edge of colour feels like a spiritual siege , a sensory reminder that her momentum has been forcibly halted. There is no use in pacing. There is no use in resisting the authoritative hand of the "in-between." To survive this stall, she must stop fighting the current and become part of the stagnant water. She buries her face, lets t...
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